Tuesday, December 31, 2013

Monday, December 30, 2013

Sunday, December 29, 2013

Mark Nepo


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From Reduced to Joy

Thursday, December 26, 2013

Al Zolynas

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Wednesday, December 25, 2013

Tuesday, December 24, 2013

Bill Knott

Hair Poem

Hair is heaven's water flowing eerily over us
Often a woman drifts off down her long hair and is lost.



Monday, December 23, 2013

Richard Jackson

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From The Georgia Review, Fall 2013

Sunday, December 22, 2013

Charlotte Adelsperger

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From Mid-America Poetry Review, Volume VI Number 2

Friday, December 20, 2013

Tony Hoagland

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From The Sun, November 2013


Thursday, December 19, 2013

Wednesday, December 18, 2013

Karl Shapiro

The Fly

O hideous little bat, the size of snot,
With polyhedral eye and shabby clothes,
To populate the stinking cat you walk
The promontory of the dead man’s nose,
Climb with the fine leg of a Duncan-Phyfe
   The smoking mountains of my food
      And in a comic mood
   In mid-air take to bed a wife.

Riding and riding with your filth of hair
On gluey foot or wing, forever coy,
Hot from the compost and green sweet decay,
Sounding your buzzer like an urchin toy—
You dot all whiteness with diminutive stool,
   In the tight belly of the dead
      Burrow with hungry head
   And inlay maggots like a jewel.

At your approach the great horse stomps and paws
Bringing the hurricane of his heavy tail;
Shod in disease you dare to kiss my hand
Which sweeps against you like an angry flail;
Still you return, return, trusting your wing
   To draw you from the hunter’s reach
      That learns to kill to teach
   Disorder to the tinier thing.

My peace is your disaster. For your death
Children like spiders cup their pretty hands
And wives resort to chemistry of war.
In fens of sticky paper and quicksands
You glue yourself to death. Where you are stuck
   You struggle hideously and beg,
      You amputate your leg
   Imbedded in the amber muck.

But I, a man, must swat you with my hate,
Slap you across the air and crush your flight,
Must mangle with my shoe and smear your blood,
Expose your little guts pasty and white,
Knock your head sidewise like a drunkard’s hat,
   Pin your wings under like a crow’s,
      Tear off your flimsy clothes
   And beat you as one beats a rat.

Then like Gargantua I stride among
The corpses strewn like raisins in the dust,
The broken bodies of the narrow dead
That catch the throat with fingers of disgust.
I sweep. One gyrates like a top and falls
   And stunned, stone blind, and deaf
      Buzzes its frightful F

   And dies between three cannibals.

Tuesday, December 17, 2013

Sarah Pemberton Strong

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From The Sun, November 2013

Monday, December 16, 2013

Sunday, December 15, 2013

Saturday, December 14, 2013

Friday, December 13, 2013

Richard Jackson

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From The Georgia Review, Fall 2013


Thursday, December 12, 2013

Wednesday, December 11, 2013

Jeffrey Harrison

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From The Common, Issue No. 06


Saturday, December 7, 2013

Wednesday, December 4, 2013

Tuesday, December 3, 2013

Richard Jackson

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From The Georgia Review, Fall 2013

Sunday, December 1, 2013

Jeffrey Harrison

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From The Common, Issue No. 06